Chapter Text
It's only when the forest goes completely silent that Cristiano realizes he may have made a mistake.
For the past few hours, he'd been continuously hiking uphill. He'd climbed over rocks and fallen trees, trampled through sparkling brooks, and eagerly followed the path upwards. It was invigorating, exploring the mountainside, surrounding himself with flora and fauna. The air was crisp, and the wind had often threatened to give him a chill, but he had been warmed by the exercise. Everything was green and lush around him, the sunlight filtering down through the thickly clustered trees, shining on hints of frost here and there.
And it had been beautiful.
Serene.
Pure.
Just what he needed.
Because sure, sometimes it's nice to be adored by millions--to be out there on the field doing what he does best: destroying defenders, weaving his way towards the net and bamboozling goalkeepers with shots so hard that they almost rip the net. And yes, it's nice to be a role model for the younger players, to give advice and take pictures with young men and women who loved him, to be approached by beaming little children who only want a hug.
It's an indescribable feeling to be making such a difference for so many people.
But he can only take so much of what comes with that--the inescapable pressure of having to always be the best, the screaming rival fans with their harassment and constant insults. Not to mention the paparazzi that follow his every move and the press that twist his every word.
Sometimes, well. Sometimes he just needs a break from that life.
He needs to go and recharge. And the best way to do that is to be alone with his thoughts, which is mainly the reason he likes hiking so much. He loves that feeling he gets when he's in the middle of nowhere, the only person for miles around, surrounded by nature. It's where he can take his time, exploring a world that most people never get to see, and he can finally relax and let go of all his worries.
So that's why, right before the season truly starts, he had taken an impromptu trip without telling anyone. He'd packed light, disguised himself, and taken a flight to somewhere he'd never been before. Nobody had recognized him in the sleepy little town, though they'd tried to press a guide on him when he'd mentioned his desire to hike up the mountain.
But he didn't want that, didn't want anyone with him on his trip, so he'd merely thanked them and said no.
He'd been nearly giddy with excitement when he'd stood at the base of the mountain and looked up towards the peak. Because it was perfect, exactly what he'd wanted. And he'd started up the mountain with a bounce in his step, stopping only to peer closer at some of the wild flowers, or to simply take in the beautiful view.
He'd even seen some reindeer casually grazing, just at the guidebook had promised, though the animals ran off when they caught sight of him watching.
Yes, it had all been perfect.
Until now.
Because now, it’s quiet. Too quiet.
None of the little forest creatures that he’d stopped to marvel at are anywhere to be seen. No majestic deer, no furry foxes or rabbits. Even the squirrels have all stopped their constant chattering. The birds have quieted, too. Their calming songs and joyful twittering have all slowed until finally, they stopped completely.
Because the clouds are starting to block out the sun.
What was once a beautiful blue sky with puffy white clouds softly drifting by, is now a rapidly changing one. A scary one. The sunshine is long gone, the forest around him dimming and darkening, making it hard for Cristiano to continue on. The wind is picking up, whipping around him and the trees sharply, tossing leaves and debris into the air.
Cristiano pulls his collar tighter around him, wishing that he had chosen to wear a scarf or hat. He'd thought his gloves would be enough.
And that’s when the rain starts.
Ice cold water splashes down upon him, first gently as it patters against leaves and branches above him, and then with more force as it truly begins to pour. Cristiano curses, shielding his eyes with his hand, trying to figure out what to do. He’d left the path some time ago, by accident, but hadn’t thought much of it. After all, he was trying to climb to the top, so all he had to do was keep following the incline. And then when he was finished, he just had to turn around and go back down the hill.
Just because it’s raining, that doesn’t mean he’s giving up.
That’s not who he is.
But even now, as the rain continues to stream down, puddles are forming all around him. The rocks are wet and slick, and as he tentatively tries to continue climbing up, his boot skids and almost sends him face first into the stone.
“Fuck,” he pants, catching himself at the last moment. He can feel the coldness of the stone even through his gloves, and he pulls his hands back immediately once he’s steady.
He moves to the side of the jagged boulder, trying to climb up again in a different spot, thinking that it's just one side that's too hard. But the rock is still too slippery, and no matter where he places his foot, he can’t get any traction. He really doesn’t have any other way to continue up the mountain, the rocks and trees having herded him into this tight area.
He contemplates trying to shimmy up one of the trees next to him, thinking maybe that he can get high enough to move over this rock and then move on.
But when he grabs ahold of a branch, testing its weight, it snaps.
“Down then,” he says to himself, knowing that he can’t continue up as planned. He's not happy about having to turn back, but he knows he can always try again tomorrow, after the storm has passed. With that in mind, he takes a few timid steps back the way he came, boots squishing into mud and sliding a little.
But down seems to be just as difficult as up, the wind whipping water into his eyes every time he drops his hand to grab ahold of a rock or branch. He can’t see any of the footholds that he’d used when he’d climbed before, and as a result, ends up guessing where to put his feet. He ends up on his ass more often than he’d like.
A thunderbolt cracks above his head, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.
All he can think of are the stories of hikers being struck by lightning—the poor fools who were touching the wrong trees at the wrong moment.
Wouldn’t that be a shitty way to get killed. He’d become a fucking trivia question: What stupid way did famous footballer Cristiano Ronaldo die?
He looks up, trying to peer through the rain and the treetops to see the sky, but all he sees is hazy darkness. “Fuck,” he curses again, mostly out of the habit of having to say something even when he's alone, wiping his eyes and looking back down at the ground. He’s already dripping wet, and he can feel the water soaking through his jacket.
Still he continues to backtrack, to go down the hill as quickly as possible.
But it isn’t possible.
Every step has to be a careful one, or else he risks bashing his head against one of the many rocks along the way. And the last thing he wants is to injure himself when he’s all alone and miles from civilization. So he moves slowly, often trying two or three different footholds before putting his full weight down.
And then it begins to hail.
“Go to Norway,” Cristiano says, repeating what Martin had said to him days before. He winces as the little stones of ice start to pelt him. “It’s so beautiful, you’ll love it,” he says, mimicking his young teammate and shielding his face as the hail bounces off the rocks ahead of him. “Well, you’re fucking wrong!” he shouts into the sky, venomously starting to plot ways to make young Ødegaard’s life miserable.
Assuming he survives this, of course.
His fingers and toes are starting to tingle, and he stamps his feet to keep them warm. But all that results in are his boots sinking into a freezing mixture of watery mud.
As if that isn’t enough, on his next step, he completely slips off a rock and falls down into a puddle. The cold water knocks the air out of his lungs, and he chokes on it for a second before he can pull his face up. Breathless, he rests on his hands and knees, closing his eyes and wishing he were anywhere but here.
He knows he looks like shit, can feel the mud sticking to his face and body, but even worse-- when he tries to get to his feet, his ankle gives out beneath him.
There's no audible snap, but the pain is enough to make Cristiano cry out, even though he knows there's no one here to hear him, nobody to complain to. For a good minute all he can cohesively think is it's broken it's broken it's broken I won't ever play football again it's broken-
But he's had plenty of practice of getting a grip on himself in moments of crisis (though this is by far the most critical moment of them all). He gets back onto his hands and knees as the pain subsides marginally, gingerly rotating his foot and hoping against hope that he hasn’t broken his ankle. He’s able to move it quite a bit, so eventually he decides that it’s merely a strain.
Except that still means he’s fucked.
Because his teeth are chattering and he’s losing feeling in his hands. He can’t be out in this storm much longer, otherwise he’s going to die of hypothermia. Another option to add to the trivia question.
He needs to seek shelter.
“There must be something,” he murmurs to himself, out of sheer habit, clinging to a tree and using it to help himself stand. He gingerly puts weight on his ankle and nearly bites through his lip at the searing agony. When he can breathe again, he wipes his face, looking around for anything he can use for shelter.
There’s a clump of trees slightly to the right, their branches sort of hanging over like a canopy, and he decides they’re better than nothing. He limps over towards them, slightly brightening when he notes that they’re thick enough to protect him from any more of the hail. He braces himself with a stick that’s about the size of a cane, squishing through more mud until he finally reaches his sanctuary.
The trees do shelter him, though they don’t do anything for his body heat, and Cristiano hugs his knees to his chest, trying to get warm. He sits there, rocking back and forth, saying a little prayer when the hail seems to change back to rain. He doesn't feel warmer, but it makes him think it must be. In the back of his mind, he realises that taking shelter under a clump of trees during a thunderstorm is the stupidest thing he can do, it's pretty much asking to get struck by lightning, but it barely registers-- and it's not like he can do much about it anyway.
He watches the rain for god knows how long, eyes unfocused as he wonders how long he can last. He starts to nod off at one point, but shakes his head violently, knowing he can't fall asleep.
He stares out into the rain again, blinking as his eyes start to play tricks on him, which means he's finally cracked.
Huh, Cristiano thinks, blinking hard again in an attempt to stop hallucinating. I thought I would have lived to be eighty.
Except, as his vision swims, and he shakes his head again, he could swear-- it looks so real, there in the distance--
He gets to his feet hurriedly, crying out as he puts his weight on his ankle again. He grits his teeth, taking deep breaths and trying not to throw up as nausea washes over him.
Because there, through the trees, almost hidden by a giant boulder, is a shack.
A fucking cabin.
And not only that, if he's seeing correctly--it's a cabin with a thin stream of smoke escaping from the chimney.
Barely aware of his actions, he starts hobbling towards the building, squishing through countless puddles and mud several inches deep. His ankle screams with every step, but Cristiano powers on, knowing that he needs to get to that cabin, needs to get in and get warm. If there's smoke, there must be a fire, must be heat, and he summons up the rest of his strength to make it the last few steps in front of the cabin.
He doesn't know who lives here, or even if they'll let a stranger in. But he has to try, especially since it starts to rain even harder, which he didn't even think was possible. The wind starts howling again, a cold knife against his skin, this time almost knocking him over, and he hurries to stumble up the front steps.
He practically heaves himself up onto the porch, shivering once he's under the roof, and starts banging on the door.